Brown Leafed Vertigo #13-1
Story Title: Brown Leafed Vertigo
Chapter Title: On the First Go-Round
Author: foxflare
Disclaimer: I own no part of Cl2(aq) + H2O(l) ↔ 2H+(aq) + Cl-(aq) + ClO-(aq). Kubo Tite-sama whitens & brightens all.
Chapter Summary: Yumichika's New Year's Eve party, part the first.
XIII. On the First Go-Round 1/2
"Aa! Fuck yeah!" The tail of Renji's braided hair cracked against his back like a whip as he pogoed in front of the bathroom mirror. "Tonight is gonna be epic."
"Man," sulked Rikichi from his perch atop the counter, jealously watching his idol preen. "Fuckin' Sousuke-san. I still don't see why I can't go."
"Sorry, squirt, but them's the brakes of bein' twelve."
"So? Hana-kun's only a year younger than Izuru-san, and he can't go, either!"
"But I wasn't invited," Hanatarou pointed out, sliding down the wall to sit on the tiled floor and rest his skinny forearms on his knees. "Even if I am fourteen, I'm still only in year ten, and Ayasegawa-san has only ever invited upperclassmen since he became one."
Renji shrugged as he adjusted the angle of his graffiti-print ball cap. "He wouldn't be Yumi if he wasn't an elitist bitch. Breath check--" He huffed into Rikichi's face. The younger boy recoiled and threw his hands up in defense.
"Augh! Mints! Bring mints!"
"Really?" Renji frowned. "I brushed right after dinner. . ."
"A. . .Abarai-san?" Hana ventured timidly. "What exactly did you brush?"
"My teeth. Duh."
"Just your teeth?"
Renji's eyebrows lifted quizzically. "Uh. . .and my hair?"
"The tongue!" Rikichi exclaimed. "You're supposed to brush your tongue! And the roof of your mouth, too."
Had he lived in an anime, Renji would have sweatdropped, and possibly purpled. "Wha. . .really?!"
"Yes, really, doofus! Jeez. Are you sure your IQ's up to par for this place? Haven't you ever been to a dentist?"
"Oi!" the redhead barked, squirting a line of toothpaste onto his brush. "If you're gonna turn traitor on me I'll have no choice but to join forces with Iba-san." He looked pointedly at the row of toilet stalls.
Rikichi's eyes widened. "You wouldn't!"
"The enemy of my enemy is my friend," warned Renji around a mouthful of sky blue foam. "Learn it well, young grasshopper."
Rikichi jutted out his chin defiantly. "I'm no traitor," he muttered. "Unlike some people who go to excluuusive New Year's Eve parties and leave their kid brothers at home to choke to death on conbini osechi. . ."
Renji spat, rinsed, gargled, and spat again. "Eh, Sousuke's certified in the Heimlich maneuver. I'm sure you'll live to whine another day. How 'bout now?" Rikichi received a second puff to the face.
"Better. Jackass."
"Thanks, buttmunch. And I'll make it up to you, okay? I promise."
Rikichi looked hopeful. "Will you give Iba-san a swirly?"
"Hell, depending on how drunk Iba-san gets tonight, he may end up giving himself a swirly."
"Huh?"
"See, that's why you can't go. I'll see ya tomorrow, squirt. Watch his back for me, eh, Yamada? Just swat it a few times if it looks like he's turnin' blue."
"H-hai, Abarai-san," Hanatarou smiled wanly. "I hope you have a good time. Say hi to Rukia-san for me."
Renji saluted as he left the bathroom and made for his and Izuru's room, where the blond was buckling his studded belt a couple of loops left-of-center.
"Hey, you ready?"
Izuru nodded. "Aa, just let me get my jacket. . ."
"Cool. I'll meet you downstairs."
The older boy ducked out again, and Izuru pulled the new SoftBank Hawks jacket Rangiku had gotten him for Christmas out of his side of the closet. Zabimaru stirred in his aquarium at the sudden change in light, and the boy bent to regard the pale python with far less hesitation than was his habit.
"You're not so scary," he admitted quietly, his small smile reflecting along the inner curves of the snake's blood-red eyes. "In fact, you're kind of cute. . ."
"Maa, cut it out, Izuru-chan. You're gonna make me blush."
Izuru smiled and turned to regard his boyfriend -- then promptly burst out laughing. "What are you wearing?"
"What?" Gin glanced down at his ensemble -- bright blue slacks and a striped gray V-neck sweater over a yellow button-down shirt. "I like it."
"You look like a partly cloudy weather forecast."
"Really? I like ta think I'm mostly sunny. . ."
Izuru only shook his head, and the two made their way down to the genkan, where Rangiku impatiently shoved their shoes into their hands.
"Come on come on come on," she hurried them along. "Time is liquor!" She poked her head around the corner of the TV room. "Sousuke! Everyone's ready, come on, let's go! It's like nine-thirty already!"
Aizen sighed as he extracted himself from the couch and stepped around the puppy-pile of Rin, Momo and Kiyone on the floor, who were raptly watching a band perform on a New Year's Eve countdown special.
"Isane, you're in charge until I get back," he told the elder Kotetsu curled up at the other end of the sofa (who was, by her own admission, "not a party person"). She nodded, and prodded her little sister with her foot.
"Hear that?"
Without tearing her eyes away from the screen, Kiyone stuck out her tongue.
"I shouldn't be longer than half an hour," said Aizen as he leisurely switched slippers for loafers and pulled on his coat. "Try not to burn the house down."
"I'll burn the house down," warned Rangiku, "if it'll light a fire under your--"
Aizen's glasses flashed.
". . .feet," she finished lamely, throwing his brown-checked scarf in the general vicinity of his neck.
As Pure Souls was itself located within the ritzier district of Rukongai, the drive to Yumichika's house was brief. Aizen eased the van to a stop in front of a tall brick wall with. . .Izuru's eyes widened -- were those turrets peeking out over the top of it?
Iba reached for the door handle.
"Stop," said Aizen, hitting the automatic locks.
Five bodies froze.
"Party protocol. Rangiku?"
"Don't die from alcohol poisoning," the buxom girl boredly recited.
"Good. Tetsuzaemon?"
"Don't leave the party under any circumstances."
"Barring a house fire or medical emergency, yes. Renji?"
"If we have to come home tonight, don't get a ride; call you."
"For any reason and at any time," Aizen stressed. "I mean it. I don't want any of you kids on the road tonight without a sober adult present -- present and conscious and driving. Understood?"
"Yes sir."
"Hai, Taichou!"
"Clear as glass," said Gin, and squeezed Izuru's hand.
Aizen unlocked the doors. "Play safe, children."
They piled out of the van and passed through a set of open, ornate iron gates that led to a long driveway, at the end of which was situated what could only be described as Château Yumi.
"Whoa," Izuru muttered under his breath, pausing to take in the enormous gray-and-brown stone house: its hipped roofs and flared eaves, its pointed dormers, the castle-like arch of its massive front doors and multi-paned windows and, yes, its turrets. And he had thought the Pure Souls home was impressive -- but where his current place of residence was classically efficient, obviously well-moneyed but modest in deference to its inhabitants of humble origin, Yumichika's home was unabashedly extravagant, kept just this side of gauche by its builders having obviously intended to display their wealth but not lacking the genuine refinement to know how to properly go about doing so.
And it twinkled. Christmas lights, either remnants of the recently passed holiday or put up specifically for the party, were strung from the rooftop to the glittering grounds like spiderwebs, or the anchoring ropes of a circus tent. A fountain -- off, presumably owing to the weather (Gin had not received his White Christmas, although the chill in the air had made good on its promise three days later), but illuminated with pink and gold lights -- dictated the roundabout curve of the drive, which was congested with cars, some looking as though they had cost a salaryman's yearly income, others whose appearances suggested they might have been traded for lunch at Maku, but all familiar fixtures in the Seireitei Academy student parking lot.
As they neared the house, Izuru saw that someone had made an anatomically-correct snow angel in the fresh powder between the pavement and the rose bushes -- he didn't even want to guess at how -- and that the windows were vibrating softly with the drum-and-bass lines of the music that could be heard all the way from the street. The sound waves nearly blew him back like a sudden gust of wind when Rangiku opened one of the huge doors and the group filed inside.
The others seemed to know their way around, and Izuru hooked a finger into the backmost belt loop of Gin's pants as the group forged a winding path through the bobbing, bouncing, and in some cases staggering bodies that crowded Yumichika's enormous. . .Izuru didn't know whether to call it a foyer or a reception hall.
In the northeast corner of the room, a small stage had been erected, flanked on either side by amps the size of refrigerators. The Vizored were fronted by a tall, lanky young man with a short blond bob and big front teeth, plaid pants and a white-on-black polka-dotted button-down. He threw himself around the stage with the reckless energy of a born ham (or possibly an epileptic on PCP), occasionally slinging an arm around or stroking the face of one of the guitarists -- the lead a long-haired fop in a poet shirt, and the rhythm a topless boy somewhere in his early twenties with silver devilock and a 69 tattooed low on his chest, whom Shuuhei, perched on one of the amps with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, was watching with open admiration.
A tiny blond twister of pure snaggletoothed fury was pounding away on the drums, while the keyboards were manned (or more accurately, womanned) by a bespectacled girl dressed in sailor fuku. A boy with a star-shaped afro plucked expertly on bass, and none in the crowd were so excited as a green-haired groupie glued to the front of the stage, throwing herself against its frame as she screamed along to every word in the lyrics, if they could really be called lyrics -- the singer had a thick Kansai accent even more extreme than Gin's that slurred his words together into a single, semi-melodic linguistic smear.
All this Izuru was forced to take in quickly, as Gin seemed to ignore the band altogether in favor of following his Ran-chan into an antechamber directly to the left of the grand staircase.
"If it isn't the Lost Boys!" Yumichika received them from his place at the head of a table that could have easily seated twenty, as he shuffled the next hand of a poker game. "--And Girl," he added. "Welcome, as ever, to my humble abode."
Rangiku leaned over the back of his chair to greet him with a hug and a peck on the cheek.
"Darling!" she crooned. "You look fabulous!"
Fabulous. Yes, thought Izuru, that was definitely the word.
Yumi sparkled, literally. Izuru couldn't even begin to guess at the cost of his kimono, all peacock blue silk and metallic embroidery the thread for which might have been spun from real gold. Glitter fell from his person like butterfly dust as he dealt the cards. A red-and-yellow feather boa was draped around his neck, and his eyes, too, fluttered with matching false lashes.
"Che, don't encourage 'im," grumbled Ikkaku from the next seat over as he gnawed irritably on a toothpick. "He's won three hands already; if his head gets any bigger it's libel ta pop like a giant zit."
"Oh Ikkaku. Your analogies always have my aesthetic benefit in mind," Yumichika sighed, then turned to address the other players -- popular eleventh-year Ogidou Harunobu, and two extremely large boys Izuru recognized as the Ikkanzaka brothers, both prominent members of Seireitei's Sumo Club. "All right, gentlemen, standard house rules still apply: five-card draw, threes wild, and if you weigh less than ninety kilos, one item of clothing removed for every straight you play. . ."
Adjacent to the table was a long sideboard crammed with silver platters of rainbow-colored space cakes, small cups of agar-agar like jewels on ice, dozens of pizzas, and the contents of what looked to be an entire liquor store, organized according to color from sparkling clear to candy-bright to darkest brown, with a fat silver keg the centerpiece of the cocktail spread.
Iba went straight for the beer, while Renji scrutinized the scotch selection and Rangiku immediately grabbed three plastic cups and began picking out multiple bottles seemingly at random.
"What do you drink, Kira-chan?" she asked Izuru, who stared, daunted, at the rows upon rows of spirits.
". . .I have no idea."
Rangiku gasped and looked at Gin with wide, astonished eyes. "Gin-chan, you found yourself a virgin?!"
A tinge of lewd pride wormed its way into Gin's smile.
"I, I've had whiskey," Izuru protested weakly, reddening.
"Mou, that's not a drink, that's paint thinner. Don't worry, though -- we'll get your cherry properly popped in no time!"
"But if you're gonna do shots, do 'em first," advised Renji, pushing a small cup of orange jelly into Izuru's hand. "Beer before liquor, never been sicker; but liquor before beer, never fear." He sucked back his own agar shot with a loud slurping noise, then smacked his lips together in satisfaction. "Lime with tequila," he said. "Mini-margarita. The red and yellow ones have rum -- strawberry daquiris and piña coladas -- and the orange ones are vodka, like screwdrivers."
Izuru looked down at his "screwdriver." It wobbled in time with the nervous trembling of his hand.
The plastic edge of a second orange shot clacked against his own.
"Bottom's up," Gin grinned, then tilted his head back and allowed the liquor-laced jelly to slide onto his tongue and down his throat in a gesture that made Izuru want to claim agar-agar as being his favorite food from then on. He downed his own shot quickly, and was pleased to find that the jelly blunted the burn of the alcohol without fully masking its flavor.
"Here you go--" Rangiku switched out his small empty cup for a much larger one, the contents of which were also orange.
"What is it?" Izuru asked.
"For the virgin? A 'sloe, comfortable screw up against the wall,' of course!" She winked, and Gin laughed at Izuru's deep blush. Renji rolled his eyes.
"Don't get him started on that fruity shit."
"Too late," Iba cracked, wiping the foam from his mustache with the back of his hand as he pulled up a chair at the poker table. "OW!"
Ikkaku snickered. "Heh. Dumbass."
Iba rubbed at his ear while Yumichika shook the sting out of his hand.
Izuru sipped his drink. ". . .it tastes like juice."
"Give it a few minutes," said Rangiku. "It won't feel like juice. And Gin-chan's got tea, so. . ."
"Gunpowder green?" Izuru asked his boyfriend.
Gin smirked. "Long Island iced. C'mon, Izuru-chan." He knotted his fingers through the younger boy's and led him in the direction of the main room. "Let's go mingle."
A few miles away, in downtown Rukongai, another party was in full -- if pendulous -- swing.
Retsu sighed as she stirred her watered-down drink with its silly little red plastic straw. The banquet hall of the Senzaikyuu Tower Hotel, annual site of the Seireitei Academy staff New Year's Eve party, was as beautiful and boring as ever.
White, everywhere she looked was white. White table settings bedecked with frosted glassware and bouquets of snowdrops and lilies adorned every table. Delicate, iridescent white foil snowflakes littered said tables' white linen cloths, and a white swan sculpted out of ice protectively guarded and cooled displays of pale conch, squid, young yellowtail and winter flounder sashimi.
White wine. White tea. White steam rising from hot sake, itself clouded white with sediment.
It reminded her of being at a funeral.
Her gaze traveled the room and fell upon the indirect host of the event. Kuchiki Byakuya had spent the majority of the night in his usual fashion, competing with the swan sculpture for the title of Ice King as he politely declined most invitations to dance (although Retsu had managed to coax him into a single movement of a sonata) and engaged in only the most cursory of conversation. One might ask why he had even bothered to attend -- in fact, more than one had, albeit never to his face -- but the nurse knew better than most how the empty shells of dignity and duty had at times become the only props that kept the man standing, and the scar on her hip gave a testimonial twinge to that fact.
There were other, more physical absences as well -- Kurotsuchi Mayuri could very rarely be found at any congregation for which attendance was not mandatory (not that he was missed), and Urahara Kisuke and Shihouin Yoruichi, who could be counted upon to liven any gathering, were for this event traditionally and tragically absent, choosing more often than not to celebrate their adjoining birthdays together in private.
In a similar vein, Retsu knew precisely where and with whom she would rather have been spending her own evening.
An acknowledgment of attraction to an older student was far from unheard of, and even accepted amongst the majority of the Seireitei staff as an unavoidable fact of life. So long as it was not acted upon, it could not be frowned upon.
But cradle-robbing had been the furthest thing from her mind the first time she'd set eyes upon Zaraki Kenpachi, especially as word of his unruly nature had reached her well beforehand. An eighteen-year-old hooligan whose intelligence had somehow slipped under every academic radar owing to his having spent a good portion of his disadvantaged youth in state institutions of far less scholarly inclinations -- even she had had trouble believing that particular Cinderella story.
The idea had been to allow him to complete his final year of secondary schooling at Seireitei with the hope that a nurturing environment and studies catered to his intellect would assist in his rehabilitation.
That it had backfired magnificently had become apparent within his first day there.
Eighteen he may have been, but he'd looked eighteen going on thirty when he was first brought to her infirmary, already scarred down the left side of his harshly-featured face, already possessing the body of a man fully grown -- and then some. He'd measured just over two meters tall, and weighed twice what she did. He could have probably snapped her neck with one hand, and had looked angry enough to do it, too -- not at her, specifically; just. . .angry. At the world, and not in the way that prompted a youth to start combing his hair over one eye and writing mediocre poetry of the No One Understands Me genre. The world understood him perfectly, and hadn't liked what it had seen.
Inexplicably, she had.
At first she'd thought it a superficial infatuation, that after seven years of nursing she was long overdue for her own bout of Florence Nightingale Syndrome. Still, it had surprised her (he usually did, often and rarely ever meaning to) -- what could they possibly have in common beyond the fact that, for a few hours each day (if he ever stayed that long, or showed up to begin with), they happened to occupy the same building?
Nothing, and yet. . .and yet, despite his predatory appearance, he had sat down mutely as requested, so that she could more easily clean and bandage the deep gash on his right temple that had the look of a princess-cut stone. He'd been gruffly respectful and even helpful, holding the square of gauze in place while she'd taped it to his brow and sharp cheekbone, and he was indeed, she discovered, quite smart. His grades would never reflect his test scores, but she was perhaps the only member of the Seireitei faculty who was never given cause to judge a student's capabilities by the amount of measurable paperwork they produced. He did pay attention, whatever his instructors said to the contrary. He paid attention to everything, all the time, in a way few ever truly did.
Academics were accustomed to focusing on only one tiny part of the world -- their chosen field of study -- and generalizing the rest of it in profound-sounding words that were ultimately unremarkable in their observations -- pretty but blurry backgrounds in perspective photographs. Zaraki Kenpachi saw the entire shot in high-contrast intensity. He might never have had his nose buried in a book -- although a visit to his apartment had proven that to be incorrect -- but he could read his surroundings as well as any scholar could a treatise on his favored subject. He was a dealer in its purest, most undiluted form: he liked to know exactly what he was dealing with at all times, from the "merchandise" he sold to the people he encountered to the settings in which those encounters took place. To be able to compute a situation instantly and spontaneously, be it the holes in a person's "bullshit" or the weak points in an opponent's guard when streetfighting -- such abilities were not the signifyers of a lumbering, meat-headed mind. His simplicity was born of clarity, not slowness.
He was a field researcher, a constant strategist; the most physical sort of scientist, and in that respect, she had had the pleasure of personally confirming that he was a very fast learner. . .
"You know. . ." White again consumed her vision and muted her thoughts as the empty seat beside her was pulled out and casually filled (or fallen into, depending on the perceptiveness of one's eyes to inebriation). ". . .there was a time when you smiled like that at me."
Retsu lowered her gaze. "Ukitake-sensei. Are you enjoying the party?"
The biology professor shrugged, his pale suit bunching up at the shoulders. "Not as much as Shun."
They both glanced in the direction of Kyouraku-sensei, who had taken up sentry by the sake table and was currently laying the charm on thick as buttercream to a less-than-receptive Ise Nanao, who in the next moment feigned to trip and "accidentally" spilled her drink down the front of Kyouraku's trousers.
"Well, perhaps a little more than Shun," Ukitake amended, watching his friend flail for a napkin. "I must admit, the company at this end of the room is incomparably better."
She blushed, and wished she could say it was out of flattery, and not guilt.
"But then," he went on, "we were always so good together, weren't we?"
Oh dear. . . "Jyuushirou," she quietly asked, "must you?"
"Must I what? Speak truthfully? Yes. We were good together, weren't we? To be honest, I've never quite understood why you denied me."
"Jyuushirou. . ."
"And I thought," he continued, his smile weakly hopeful, "I thought, seeing as it's the New Year. . .I thought that maybe we could be good together again. A fresh start. A fresh chance."
"Jyuushirou. . .you're drunk."
Another shrug. "Not terribly. Not so much that I don't know what I'm saying, or that I wouldn't want to say it even if I were sober."
"Jyuushirou. . .no. I'm sorry, but no."
Ukitake looked helplessly nonplussed. "But why? Why not?"
"Because--"
"There hasn't been anyone else, has there? Surely that must mean something--"
"Jyuushirou. . ."
"Stop -- stop saying my name like that!"
A few heads turned in their direction at his outburst. Ukitake reddened, and she waited for him to regain his composure before sadly shaking her head.
"That's how I always said it. I'm sorry, Ukitake-sensei, but I can't do this."
"Can't, or won't?"
"Both. You're a good man, Ukitake Jyuushirou, but. . ."
". . .but not good enough for you," he finished for her.
"Too good. Too good for me. I'm sorry. Goodnight, Ukitake-sensei." She collected her purse and rose from her seat.
"Retsu--"
She looked between his pleading eyes and the hand that grasped her forearm to keep her from leaving.
Ukitake's mouth opened and shut like a landed fish, but his words became tangled in the net of his tongue.
Reluctantly he retracted the barbs of his fingers from her skin, setting her free, but not, she sensed with rueful certainty as she made her way to the hotel lobby, letting her go.
Gin's version of "mingling," Izuru learned, did not match that of Izuru's parents, who had taught him to make the rounds of a dinner party swiftly but politely, never tarrying for too long in a single conversation whilst still conveying an infinite patience for each speaker to say his or her piece.
Gin wormed his way in and out of conversations seemingly at random, disregarding all signs as to whether or not they were open to uninvited contributors. With Izuru in tow, he sidled up to couples talking one-on-one, listened in for a moment or two, then offered up his always unasked-for opinion on something that may or may not have had anything to do with the subject matter at hand. He breezed through groups he could have easily gone around, and even grabbed and cornered the occasional wallflower as if each was an old chum, quizzing them on what they thought of the party, whether they were fretting or confident about upcoming exams and how they were preparing for them, and what a fantastic outfit, where was it bought? ---before leaving them in the lurch mid-reply, his interest having flown the coop with as little warning as it had arrived.
It was all, Izuru thought, quite insufferably rude. His parents would have been mortified. He should have been mortified, drowning in guilt-by-association, and perhaps he would have been, if the not-juice Rangiku had supplied him with hadn't been steadily decreasing in volume every time he hid a smirk around the rim of his cup. Then again. . .
He was having fun, and Gin, Gin was so. . .brave, to do the things he did. To be able to walk up to anybody and say. . .well, anything, be it stupid or insightful or just plain weird, and just. . .not care. Izuru didn't lack confidence, per se, but he did have a healthy respect for consequences -- things which were apparently completely foreign concepts to Gin. The fox-faced boy didn't have caution to throw into the wind -- he was the wind, wild and unpredictable. Being with him was like watching a path of destruction from inside the funnel cloud, and Izuru felt all ruby-shod and Technicolor where he'd once been shot in sepia.
Their circuit eventually brought them to the edge of the dance floor. Izuru saw that Shuuhei had abandoned his post on the amp, and the piece of equipment was now serving as a diving board for crowd surfers. It look like fun, Izuru thought, smirking as Renji bobbed past on a current of heads and hands, ruddy-faced and hollering.
"Do you think. . ." The remainder of the question -- did Gin think it would be worth the risk to attempt the jump in tandem, holding hands -- withered unfinished inside Izuru's mouth when he noticed that Gin had gone stock-still, his attention focused firmly elsewhere -- specifically, on the stage.
More specifically, on the Vizored's lithe and charismatic lead singer.
A strange, semi-sick feeling curdled in Izuru's guts, and he downed the last of his drink in an attempt to wash it away.
"What's wrong?" he asked, crunching his empty cup in his hand.
"That guy. . ." said Gin -- shouted, actually, over the music.
The feeling worsened. It. . .bubbled.
"Do you know him?"
The squint of Gin's eyes became somehow more pronounced. "No. Maybe. I dunno. I feel like I seen 'im somewhere before."
"Maybe just around? At Las Noches or something?" Izuru tried to temper the hope in his voice.
"No, it's not that. . ." Gin shook his head, then shrugged. "Eh, it'll come ta me eventually. Let's dance!"
Suddenly, Izuru felt a different sort of sick as he was hauled into the mob.
He didn't dance. Neither did he sing karaoke, wear anything lamé, or otherwise deliberately seek to embarrass himself in public, if he could help it; but above all, he never, ever danced.
Luckily, no one else at the party appeared to, either; the Vizored's sound was too raw for it, their energy too rabidly infectious. Renji was right -- they were good. They sounded the way a stifled scream felt, riling their audience like microwaved molecules until they vibrated, jumped and crashed into one another at forces just this side of bone-breaking. Coupled with a stomach full of the not-juice Rangiku had given him, it wasn't the most comfortable thing in the world, but the not part of the drink ensured that Izuru didn't really care.
Being crushed and nearly concussed by a falling crowd surfer twice his size three songs in helped, too.
Gin dug him out in record time, though, and ushered him to the sidelines of the dance floor, where the silver-haired boy made a fuss of checking the dilation of Izuru's pupils and feeling for any sprouting eggs on his head.
"I'm fine," Izuru insisted, but was inwardly, shamefully pleased at his reclamation of Gin's undivided attention. "He just winded me a bit."
"That asshole," Gin growled, shooting a baleful glare over his shoulder to where the offending surfer was laughing with his beer-blazed buddies over his less than graceful swan dive into the crowd. "Ain't no one allowed ta wind my Izuru-chan but me."
Izuru blinked in surprise. That was. . .heart-meltingly protective. And a little worrying, with Gin's recently revealed propensity for fisticuffs fresh in Izuru's mind.
"Hey," he said. Gin ducked away from the hand Izuru lifted to his cheek, but the rapidly building momentum of his agitation seemed to stall. "Hey," Izuru said again, "prove it, then. Show him how it's done."
For a moment, he wondered if Gin had even heard him. . .but then that familiar smile returned, and Izuru relaxed, and inwardly congratulated himself on his diffusing of the situation as Gin readily answered his challenge.
"Che. Get a room," sneered the eldest Oomaeda sibling as he pushed past, knocking them into a potted parlor palm. "No one wants to see that faggy shit."
"Says a guy whose main extracurricular activity involves wearin' diapers an' huggin' on other men," Gin muttered contemptuously under his breath. "He's got a good idea, though. Wait here." He gave Izuru's forearms a squeeze before disappearing into the crowd.
Izuru's heart, which had dropped into his stomach at the oversized boy's words, all notions of personal triumph forgotten, yo-yoed back up into his throat. A room?
Of course he'd been alone with Gin in a bedroom before -- quite frequently, in fact, since they'd gotten together -- but being at Pure Souls was something of a barrier to real intimacy in and of itself. There was always the overhanging possibility that they could be walked in on by Iba or Renji or Aizen (or Rangiku, and Rangiku's camera) that prevented them from taking things too far -- or at least, prevented Izuru from taking things too far. That, and fear.
Was he ready for this? It had only been ten days since their first kiss -- since his first kiss.
Maybe he was assuming too much. Just because they would have more privacy in a room at Yumichika's house in no way stipulated that they had to use it to do anything more than they normally did.
. . .did it?
Gin reappeared before Izuru could answer himself, clutching a bottle of champagne in one hand and a corkscrew in the other.
"Okay, ready!" he announced, smiling victoriously. "This way, Izuru-chan!"
Chapter XIII-II
Chapter Title: On the First Go-Round
Author: foxflare
Disclaimer: I own no part of Cl2(aq) + H2O(l) ↔ 2H+(aq) + Cl-(aq) + ClO-(aq). Kubo Tite-sama whitens & brightens all.
Chapter Summary: Yumichika's New Year's Eve party, part the first.
XIII. On the First Go-Round 1/2
"Aa! Fuck yeah!" The tail of Renji's braided hair cracked against his back like a whip as he pogoed in front of the bathroom mirror. "Tonight is gonna be epic."
"Man," sulked Rikichi from his perch atop the counter, jealously watching his idol preen. "Fuckin' Sousuke-san. I still don't see why I can't go."
"Sorry, squirt, but them's the brakes of bein' twelve."
"So? Hana-kun's only a year younger than Izuru-san, and he can't go, either!"
"But I wasn't invited," Hanatarou pointed out, sliding down the wall to sit on the tiled floor and rest his skinny forearms on his knees. "Even if I am fourteen, I'm still only in year ten, and Ayasegawa-san has only ever invited upperclassmen since he became one."
Renji shrugged as he adjusted the angle of his graffiti-print ball cap. "He wouldn't be Yumi if he wasn't an elitist bitch. Breath check--" He huffed into Rikichi's face. The younger boy recoiled and threw his hands up in defense.
"Augh! Mints! Bring mints!"
"Really?" Renji frowned. "I brushed right after dinner. . ."
"A. . .Abarai-san?" Hana ventured timidly. "What exactly did you brush?"
"My teeth. Duh."
"Just your teeth?"
Renji's eyebrows lifted quizzically. "Uh. . .and my hair?"
"The tongue!" Rikichi exclaimed. "You're supposed to brush your tongue! And the roof of your mouth, too."
Had he lived in an anime, Renji would have sweatdropped, and possibly purpled. "Wha. . .really?!"
"Yes, really, doofus! Jeez. Are you sure your IQ's up to par for this place? Haven't you ever been to a dentist?"
"Oi!" the redhead barked, squirting a line of toothpaste onto his brush. "If you're gonna turn traitor on me I'll have no choice but to join forces with Iba-san." He looked pointedly at the row of toilet stalls.
Rikichi's eyes widened. "You wouldn't!"
"The enemy of my enemy is my friend," warned Renji around a mouthful of sky blue foam. "Learn it well, young grasshopper."
Rikichi jutted out his chin defiantly. "I'm no traitor," he muttered. "Unlike some people who go to excluuusive New Year's Eve parties and leave their kid brothers at home to choke to death on conbini osechi. . ."
Renji spat, rinsed, gargled, and spat again. "Eh, Sousuke's certified in the Heimlich maneuver. I'm sure you'll live to whine another day. How 'bout now?" Rikichi received a second puff to the face.
"Better. Jackass."
"Thanks, buttmunch. And I'll make it up to you, okay? I promise."
Rikichi looked hopeful. "Will you give Iba-san a swirly?"
"Hell, depending on how drunk Iba-san gets tonight, he may end up giving himself a swirly."
"Huh?"
"See, that's why you can't go. I'll see ya tomorrow, squirt. Watch his back for me, eh, Yamada? Just swat it a few times if it looks like he's turnin' blue."
"H-hai, Abarai-san," Hanatarou smiled wanly. "I hope you have a good time. Say hi to Rukia-san for me."
Renji saluted as he left the bathroom and made for his and Izuru's room, where the blond was buckling his studded belt a couple of loops left-of-center.
"Hey, you ready?"
Izuru nodded. "Aa, just let me get my jacket. . ."
"Cool. I'll meet you downstairs."
The older boy ducked out again, and Izuru pulled the new SoftBank Hawks jacket Rangiku had gotten him for Christmas out of his side of the closet. Zabimaru stirred in his aquarium at the sudden change in light, and the boy bent to regard the pale python with far less hesitation than was his habit.
"You're not so scary," he admitted quietly, his small smile reflecting along the inner curves of the snake's blood-red eyes. "In fact, you're kind of cute. . ."
"Maa, cut it out, Izuru-chan. You're gonna make me blush."
Izuru smiled and turned to regard his boyfriend -- then promptly burst out laughing. "What are you wearing?"
"What?" Gin glanced down at his ensemble -- bright blue slacks and a striped gray V-neck sweater over a yellow button-down shirt. "I like it."
"You look like a partly cloudy weather forecast."
"Really? I like ta think I'm mostly sunny. . ."
Izuru only shook his head, and the two made their way down to the genkan, where Rangiku impatiently shoved their shoes into their hands.
"Come on come on come on," she hurried them along. "Time is liquor!" She poked her head around the corner of the TV room. "Sousuke! Everyone's ready, come on, let's go! It's like nine-thirty already!"
Aizen sighed as he extracted himself from the couch and stepped around the puppy-pile of Rin, Momo and Kiyone on the floor, who were raptly watching a band perform on a New Year's Eve countdown special.
"Isane, you're in charge until I get back," he told the elder Kotetsu curled up at the other end of the sofa (who was, by her own admission, "not a party person"). She nodded, and prodded her little sister with her foot.
"Hear that?"
Without tearing her eyes away from the screen, Kiyone stuck out her tongue.
"I shouldn't be longer than half an hour," said Aizen as he leisurely switched slippers for loafers and pulled on his coat. "Try not to burn the house down."
"I'll burn the house down," warned Rangiku, "if it'll light a fire under your--"
Aizen's glasses flashed.
". . .feet," she finished lamely, throwing his brown-checked scarf in the general vicinity of his neck.
As Pure Souls was itself located within the ritzier district of Rukongai, the drive to Yumichika's house was brief. Aizen eased the van to a stop in front of a tall brick wall with. . .Izuru's eyes widened -- were those turrets peeking out over the top of it?
Iba reached for the door handle.
"Stop," said Aizen, hitting the automatic locks.
Five bodies froze.
"Party protocol. Rangiku?"
"Don't die from alcohol poisoning," the buxom girl boredly recited.
"Good. Tetsuzaemon?"
"Don't leave the party under any circumstances."
"Barring a house fire or medical emergency, yes. Renji?"
"If we have to come home tonight, don't get a ride; call you."
"For any reason and at any time," Aizen stressed. "I mean it. I don't want any of you kids on the road tonight without a sober adult present -- present and conscious and driving. Understood?"
"Yes sir."
"Hai, Taichou!"
"Clear as glass," said Gin, and squeezed Izuru's hand.
Aizen unlocked the doors. "Play safe, children."
They piled out of the van and passed through a set of open, ornate iron gates that led to a long driveway, at the end of which was situated what could only be described as Château Yumi.
"Whoa," Izuru muttered under his breath, pausing to take in the enormous gray-and-brown stone house: its hipped roofs and flared eaves, its pointed dormers, the castle-like arch of its massive front doors and multi-paned windows and, yes, its turrets. And he had thought the Pure Souls home was impressive -- but where his current place of residence was classically efficient, obviously well-moneyed but modest in deference to its inhabitants of humble origin, Yumichika's home was unabashedly extravagant, kept just this side of gauche by its builders having obviously intended to display their wealth but not lacking the genuine refinement to know how to properly go about doing so.
And it twinkled. Christmas lights, either remnants of the recently passed holiday or put up specifically for the party, were strung from the rooftop to the glittering grounds like spiderwebs, or the anchoring ropes of a circus tent. A fountain -- off, presumably owing to the weather (Gin had not received his White Christmas, although the chill in the air had made good on its promise three days later), but illuminated with pink and gold lights -- dictated the roundabout curve of the drive, which was congested with cars, some looking as though they had cost a salaryman's yearly income, others whose appearances suggested they might have been traded for lunch at Maku, but all familiar fixtures in the Seireitei Academy student parking lot.
As they neared the house, Izuru saw that someone had made an anatomically-correct snow angel in the fresh powder between the pavement and the rose bushes -- he didn't even want to guess at how -- and that the windows were vibrating softly with the drum-and-bass lines of the music that could be heard all the way from the street. The sound waves nearly blew him back like a sudden gust of wind when Rangiku opened one of the huge doors and the group filed inside.
The others seemed to know their way around, and Izuru hooked a finger into the backmost belt loop of Gin's pants as the group forged a winding path through the bobbing, bouncing, and in some cases staggering bodies that crowded Yumichika's enormous. . .Izuru didn't know whether to call it a foyer or a reception hall.
In the northeast corner of the room, a small stage had been erected, flanked on either side by amps the size of refrigerators. The Vizored were fronted by a tall, lanky young man with a short blond bob and big front teeth, plaid pants and a white-on-black polka-dotted button-down. He threw himself around the stage with the reckless energy of a born ham (or possibly an epileptic on PCP), occasionally slinging an arm around or stroking the face of one of the guitarists -- the lead a long-haired fop in a poet shirt, and the rhythm a topless boy somewhere in his early twenties with silver devilock and a 69 tattooed low on his chest, whom Shuuhei, perched on one of the amps with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, was watching with open admiration.
A tiny blond twister of pure snaggletoothed fury was pounding away on the drums, while the keyboards were manned (or more accurately, womanned) by a bespectacled girl dressed in sailor fuku. A boy with a star-shaped afro plucked expertly on bass, and none in the crowd were so excited as a green-haired groupie glued to the front of the stage, throwing herself against its frame as she screamed along to every word in the lyrics, if they could really be called lyrics -- the singer had a thick Kansai accent even more extreme than Gin's that slurred his words together into a single, semi-melodic linguistic smear.
All this Izuru was forced to take in quickly, as Gin seemed to ignore the band altogether in favor of following his Ran-chan into an antechamber directly to the left of the grand staircase.
"If it isn't the Lost Boys!" Yumichika received them from his place at the head of a table that could have easily seated twenty, as he shuffled the next hand of a poker game. "--And Girl," he added. "Welcome, as ever, to my humble abode."
Rangiku leaned over the back of his chair to greet him with a hug and a peck on the cheek.
"Darling!" she crooned. "You look fabulous!"
Fabulous. Yes, thought Izuru, that was definitely the word.
Yumi sparkled, literally. Izuru couldn't even begin to guess at the cost of his kimono, all peacock blue silk and metallic embroidery the thread for which might have been spun from real gold. Glitter fell from his person like butterfly dust as he dealt the cards. A red-and-yellow feather boa was draped around his neck, and his eyes, too, fluttered with matching false lashes.
"Che, don't encourage 'im," grumbled Ikkaku from the next seat over as he gnawed irritably on a toothpick. "He's won three hands already; if his head gets any bigger it's libel ta pop like a giant zit."
"Oh Ikkaku. Your analogies always have my aesthetic benefit in mind," Yumichika sighed, then turned to address the other players -- popular eleventh-year Ogidou Harunobu, and two extremely large boys Izuru recognized as the Ikkanzaka brothers, both prominent members of Seireitei's Sumo Club. "All right, gentlemen, standard house rules still apply: five-card draw, threes wild, and if you weigh less than ninety kilos, one item of clothing removed for every straight you play. . ."
Adjacent to the table was a long sideboard crammed with silver platters of rainbow-colored space cakes, small cups of agar-agar like jewels on ice, dozens of pizzas, and the contents of what looked to be an entire liquor store, organized according to color from sparkling clear to candy-bright to darkest brown, with a fat silver keg the centerpiece of the cocktail spread.
Iba went straight for the beer, while Renji scrutinized the scotch selection and Rangiku immediately grabbed three plastic cups and began picking out multiple bottles seemingly at random.
"What do you drink, Kira-chan?" she asked Izuru, who stared, daunted, at the rows upon rows of spirits.
". . .I have no idea."
Rangiku gasped and looked at Gin with wide, astonished eyes. "Gin-chan, you found yourself a virgin?!"
A tinge of lewd pride wormed its way into Gin's smile.
"I, I've had whiskey," Izuru protested weakly, reddening.
"Mou, that's not a drink, that's paint thinner. Don't worry, though -- we'll get your cherry properly popped in no time!"
"But if you're gonna do shots, do 'em first," advised Renji, pushing a small cup of orange jelly into Izuru's hand. "Beer before liquor, never been sicker; but liquor before beer, never fear." He sucked back his own agar shot with a loud slurping noise, then smacked his lips together in satisfaction. "Lime with tequila," he said. "Mini-margarita. The red and yellow ones have rum -- strawberry daquiris and piña coladas -- and the orange ones are vodka, like screwdrivers."
Izuru looked down at his "screwdriver." It wobbled in time with the nervous trembling of his hand.
The plastic edge of a second orange shot clacked against his own.
"Bottom's up," Gin grinned, then tilted his head back and allowed the liquor-laced jelly to slide onto his tongue and down his throat in a gesture that made Izuru want to claim agar-agar as being his favorite food from then on. He downed his own shot quickly, and was pleased to find that the jelly blunted the burn of the alcohol without fully masking its flavor.
"Here you go--" Rangiku switched out his small empty cup for a much larger one, the contents of which were also orange.
"What is it?" Izuru asked.
"For the virgin? A 'sloe, comfortable screw up against the wall,' of course!" She winked, and Gin laughed at Izuru's deep blush. Renji rolled his eyes.
"Don't get him started on that fruity shit."
"Too late," Iba cracked, wiping the foam from his mustache with the back of his hand as he pulled up a chair at the poker table. "OW!"
Ikkaku snickered. "Heh. Dumbass."
Iba rubbed at his ear while Yumichika shook the sting out of his hand.
Izuru sipped his drink. ". . .it tastes like juice."
"Give it a few minutes," said Rangiku. "It won't feel like juice. And Gin-chan's got tea, so. . ."
"Gunpowder green?" Izuru asked his boyfriend.
Gin smirked. "Long Island iced. C'mon, Izuru-chan." He knotted his fingers through the younger boy's and led him in the direction of the main room. "Let's go mingle."
A few miles away, in downtown Rukongai, another party was in full -- if pendulous -- swing.
Retsu sighed as she stirred her watered-down drink with its silly little red plastic straw. The banquet hall of the Senzaikyuu Tower Hotel, annual site of the Seireitei Academy staff New Year's Eve party, was as beautiful and boring as ever.
White, everywhere she looked was white. White table settings bedecked with frosted glassware and bouquets of snowdrops and lilies adorned every table. Delicate, iridescent white foil snowflakes littered said tables' white linen cloths, and a white swan sculpted out of ice protectively guarded and cooled displays of pale conch, squid, young yellowtail and winter flounder sashimi.
White wine. White tea. White steam rising from hot sake, itself clouded white with sediment.
It reminded her of being at a funeral.
Her gaze traveled the room and fell upon the indirect host of the event. Kuchiki Byakuya had spent the majority of the night in his usual fashion, competing with the swan sculpture for the title of Ice King as he politely declined most invitations to dance (although Retsu had managed to coax him into a single movement of a sonata) and engaged in only the most cursory of conversation. One might ask why he had even bothered to attend -- in fact, more than one had, albeit never to his face -- but the nurse knew better than most how the empty shells of dignity and duty had at times become the only props that kept the man standing, and the scar on her hip gave a testimonial twinge to that fact.
There were other, more physical absences as well -- Kurotsuchi Mayuri could very rarely be found at any congregation for which attendance was not mandatory (not that he was missed), and Urahara Kisuke and Shihouin Yoruichi, who could be counted upon to liven any gathering, were for this event traditionally and tragically absent, choosing more often than not to celebrate their adjoining birthdays together in private.
In a similar vein, Retsu knew precisely where and with whom she would rather have been spending her own evening.
An acknowledgment of attraction to an older student was far from unheard of, and even accepted amongst the majority of the Seireitei staff as an unavoidable fact of life. So long as it was not acted upon, it could not be frowned upon.
But cradle-robbing had been the furthest thing from her mind the first time she'd set eyes upon Zaraki Kenpachi, especially as word of his unruly nature had reached her well beforehand. An eighteen-year-old hooligan whose intelligence had somehow slipped under every academic radar owing to his having spent a good portion of his disadvantaged youth in state institutions of far less scholarly inclinations -- even she had had trouble believing that particular Cinderella story.
The idea had been to allow him to complete his final year of secondary schooling at Seireitei with the hope that a nurturing environment and studies catered to his intellect would assist in his rehabilitation.
That it had backfired magnificently had become apparent within his first day there.
Eighteen he may have been, but he'd looked eighteen going on thirty when he was first brought to her infirmary, already scarred down the left side of his harshly-featured face, already possessing the body of a man fully grown -- and then some. He'd measured just over two meters tall, and weighed twice what she did. He could have probably snapped her neck with one hand, and had looked angry enough to do it, too -- not at her, specifically; just. . .angry. At the world, and not in the way that prompted a youth to start combing his hair over one eye and writing mediocre poetry of the No One Understands Me genre. The world understood him perfectly, and hadn't liked what it had seen.
Inexplicably, she had.
At first she'd thought it a superficial infatuation, that after seven years of nursing she was long overdue for her own bout of Florence Nightingale Syndrome. Still, it had surprised her (he usually did, often and rarely ever meaning to) -- what could they possibly have in common beyond the fact that, for a few hours each day (if he ever stayed that long, or showed up to begin with), they happened to occupy the same building?
Nothing, and yet. . .and yet, despite his predatory appearance, he had sat down mutely as requested, so that she could more easily clean and bandage the deep gash on his right temple that had the look of a princess-cut stone. He'd been gruffly respectful and even helpful, holding the square of gauze in place while she'd taped it to his brow and sharp cheekbone, and he was indeed, she discovered, quite smart. His grades would never reflect his test scores, but she was perhaps the only member of the Seireitei faculty who was never given cause to judge a student's capabilities by the amount of measurable paperwork they produced. He did pay attention, whatever his instructors said to the contrary. He paid attention to everything, all the time, in a way few ever truly did.
Academics were accustomed to focusing on only one tiny part of the world -- their chosen field of study -- and generalizing the rest of it in profound-sounding words that were ultimately unremarkable in their observations -- pretty but blurry backgrounds in perspective photographs. Zaraki Kenpachi saw the entire shot in high-contrast intensity. He might never have had his nose buried in a book -- although a visit to his apartment had proven that to be incorrect -- but he could read his surroundings as well as any scholar could a treatise on his favored subject. He was a dealer in its purest, most undiluted form: he liked to know exactly what he was dealing with at all times, from the "merchandise" he sold to the people he encountered to the settings in which those encounters took place. To be able to compute a situation instantly and spontaneously, be it the holes in a person's "bullshit" or the weak points in an opponent's guard when streetfighting -- such abilities were not the signifyers of a lumbering, meat-headed mind. His simplicity was born of clarity, not slowness.
He was a field researcher, a constant strategist; the most physical sort of scientist, and in that respect, she had had the pleasure of personally confirming that he was a very fast learner. . .
"You know. . ." White again consumed her vision and muted her thoughts as the empty seat beside her was pulled out and casually filled (or fallen into, depending on the perceptiveness of one's eyes to inebriation). ". . .there was a time when you smiled like that at me."
Retsu lowered her gaze. "Ukitake-sensei. Are you enjoying the party?"
The biology professor shrugged, his pale suit bunching up at the shoulders. "Not as much as Shun."
They both glanced in the direction of Kyouraku-sensei, who had taken up sentry by the sake table and was currently laying the charm on thick as buttercream to a less-than-receptive Ise Nanao, who in the next moment feigned to trip and "accidentally" spilled her drink down the front of Kyouraku's trousers.
"Well, perhaps a little more than Shun," Ukitake amended, watching his friend flail for a napkin. "I must admit, the company at this end of the room is incomparably better."
She blushed, and wished she could say it was out of flattery, and not guilt.
"But then," he went on, "we were always so good together, weren't we?"
Oh dear. . . "Jyuushirou," she quietly asked, "must you?"
"Must I what? Speak truthfully? Yes. We were good together, weren't we? To be honest, I've never quite understood why you denied me."
"Jyuushirou. . ."
"And I thought," he continued, his smile weakly hopeful, "I thought, seeing as it's the New Year. . .I thought that maybe we could be good together again. A fresh start. A fresh chance."
"Jyuushirou. . .you're drunk."
Another shrug. "Not terribly. Not so much that I don't know what I'm saying, or that I wouldn't want to say it even if I were sober."
"Jyuushirou. . .no. I'm sorry, but no."
Ukitake looked helplessly nonplussed. "But why? Why not?"
"Because--"
"There hasn't been anyone else, has there? Surely that must mean something--"
"Jyuushirou. . ."
"Stop -- stop saying my name like that!"
A few heads turned in their direction at his outburst. Ukitake reddened, and she waited for him to regain his composure before sadly shaking her head.
"That's how I always said it. I'm sorry, Ukitake-sensei, but I can't do this."
"Can't, or won't?"
"Both. You're a good man, Ukitake Jyuushirou, but. . ."
". . .but not good enough for you," he finished for her.
"Too good. Too good for me. I'm sorry. Goodnight, Ukitake-sensei." She collected her purse and rose from her seat.
"Retsu--"
She looked between his pleading eyes and the hand that grasped her forearm to keep her from leaving.
Ukitake's mouth opened and shut like a landed fish, but his words became tangled in the net of his tongue.
Reluctantly he retracted the barbs of his fingers from her skin, setting her free, but not, she sensed with rueful certainty as she made her way to the hotel lobby, letting her go.
Gin's version of "mingling," Izuru learned, did not match that of Izuru's parents, who had taught him to make the rounds of a dinner party swiftly but politely, never tarrying for too long in a single conversation whilst still conveying an infinite patience for each speaker to say his or her piece.
Gin wormed his way in and out of conversations seemingly at random, disregarding all signs as to whether or not they were open to uninvited contributors. With Izuru in tow, he sidled up to couples talking one-on-one, listened in for a moment or two, then offered up his always unasked-for opinion on something that may or may not have had anything to do with the subject matter at hand. He breezed through groups he could have easily gone around, and even grabbed and cornered the occasional wallflower as if each was an old chum, quizzing them on what they thought of the party, whether they were fretting or confident about upcoming exams and how they were preparing for them, and what a fantastic outfit, where was it bought? ---before leaving them in the lurch mid-reply, his interest having flown the coop with as little warning as it had arrived.
It was all, Izuru thought, quite insufferably rude. His parents would have been mortified. He should have been mortified, drowning in guilt-by-association, and perhaps he would have been, if the not-juice Rangiku had supplied him with hadn't been steadily decreasing in volume every time he hid a smirk around the rim of his cup. Then again. . .
He was having fun, and Gin, Gin was so. . .brave, to do the things he did. To be able to walk up to anybody and say. . .well, anything, be it stupid or insightful or just plain weird, and just. . .not care. Izuru didn't lack confidence, per se, but he did have a healthy respect for consequences -- things which were apparently completely foreign concepts to Gin. The fox-faced boy didn't have caution to throw into the wind -- he was the wind, wild and unpredictable. Being with him was like watching a path of destruction from inside the funnel cloud, and Izuru felt all ruby-shod and Technicolor where he'd once been shot in sepia.
Their circuit eventually brought them to the edge of the dance floor. Izuru saw that Shuuhei had abandoned his post on the amp, and the piece of equipment was now serving as a diving board for crowd surfers. It look like fun, Izuru thought, smirking as Renji bobbed past on a current of heads and hands, ruddy-faced and hollering.
"Do you think. . ." The remainder of the question -- did Gin think it would be worth the risk to attempt the jump in tandem, holding hands -- withered unfinished inside Izuru's mouth when he noticed that Gin had gone stock-still, his attention focused firmly elsewhere -- specifically, on the stage.
More specifically, on the Vizored's lithe and charismatic lead singer.
A strange, semi-sick feeling curdled in Izuru's guts, and he downed the last of his drink in an attempt to wash it away.
"What's wrong?" he asked, crunching his empty cup in his hand.
"That guy. . ." said Gin -- shouted, actually, over the music.
The feeling worsened. It. . .bubbled.
"Do you know him?"
The squint of Gin's eyes became somehow more pronounced. "No. Maybe. I dunno. I feel like I seen 'im somewhere before."
"Maybe just around? At Las Noches or something?" Izuru tried to temper the hope in his voice.
"No, it's not that. . ." Gin shook his head, then shrugged. "Eh, it'll come ta me eventually. Let's dance!"
Suddenly, Izuru felt a different sort of sick as he was hauled into the mob.
He didn't dance. Neither did he sing karaoke, wear anything lamé, or otherwise deliberately seek to embarrass himself in public, if he could help it; but above all, he never, ever danced.
Luckily, no one else at the party appeared to, either; the Vizored's sound was too raw for it, their energy too rabidly infectious. Renji was right -- they were good. They sounded the way a stifled scream felt, riling their audience like microwaved molecules until they vibrated, jumped and crashed into one another at forces just this side of bone-breaking. Coupled with a stomach full of the not-juice Rangiku had given him, it wasn't the most comfortable thing in the world, but the not part of the drink ensured that Izuru didn't really care.
Being crushed and nearly concussed by a falling crowd surfer twice his size three songs in helped, too.
Gin dug him out in record time, though, and ushered him to the sidelines of the dance floor, where the silver-haired boy made a fuss of checking the dilation of Izuru's pupils and feeling for any sprouting eggs on his head.
"I'm fine," Izuru insisted, but was inwardly, shamefully pleased at his reclamation of Gin's undivided attention. "He just winded me a bit."
"That asshole," Gin growled, shooting a baleful glare over his shoulder to where the offending surfer was laughing with his beer-blazed buddies over his less than graceful swan dive into the crowd. "Ain't no one allowed ta wind my Izuru-chan but me."
Izuru blinked in surprise. That was. . .heart-meltingly protective. And a little worrying, with Gin's recently revealed propensity for fisticuffs fresh in Izuru's mind.
"Hey," he said. Gin ducked away from the hand Izuru lifted to his cheek, but the rapidly building momentum of his agitation seemed to stall. "Hey," Izuru said again, "prove it, then. Show him how it's done."
For a moment, he wondered if Gin had even heard him. . .but then that familiar smile returned, and Izuru relaxed, and inwardly congratulated himself on his diffusing of the situation as Gin readily answered his challenge.
"Che. Get a room," sneered the eldest Oomaeda sibling as he pushed past, knocking them into a potted parlor palm. "No one wants to see that faggy shit."
"Says a guy whose main extracurricular activity involves wearin' diapers an' huggin' on other men," Gin muttered contemptuously under his breath. "He's got a good idea, though. Wait here." He gave Izuru's forearms a squeeze before disappearing into the crowd.
Izuru's heart, which had dropped into his stomach at the oversized boy's words, all notions of personal triumph forgotten, yo-yoed back up into his throat. A room?
Of course he'd been alone with Gin in a bedroom before -- quite frequently, in fact, since they'd gotten together -- but being at Pure Souls was something of a barrier to real intimacy in and of itself. There was always the overhanging possibility that they could be walked in on by Iba or Renji or Aizen (or Rangiku, and Rangiku's camera) that prevented them from taking things too far -- or at least, prevented Izuru from taking things too far. That, and fear.
Was he ready for this? It had only been ten days since their first kiss -- since his first kiss.
Maybe he was assuming too much. Just because they would have more privacy in a room at Yumichika's house in no way stipulated that they had to use it to do anything more than they normally did.
. . .did it?
Gin reappeared before Izuru could answer himself, clutching a bottle of champagne in one hand and a corkscrew in the other.
"Okay, ready!" he announced, smiling victoriously. "This way, Izuru-chan!"
Chapter XIII-II